


Lines of Salt

by SoundandColor



Category: The Killing
Genre: Case Fic, Character Study, Codependency, Gen, Gen With Shippy Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, POV Male Character, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoundandColor/pseuds/SoundandColor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s sitting in the waiting room (gauze on his cheek and elbow. His hoodie is destroyed and he sort of thinks that’s the true tragedy of this entire operation), watching Carlson’s triumphant press conference on the criminal he just collared, when Linden hobbles out of the back.  He stands gingerly and meets her halfway. “Want the good news or the bad news first?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines of Salt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadnes_string](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/gifts).



 

They’ve assigned him a new partner, some nerd who wears hipster ties and suit jackets every day, and Holder just might be making it his side job to see how much the asshole can take before he asks for a transfer.

 

“It’s been six months.”

 

Holder puts his hands in his pockets and takes a breath as he looks out onto the amazing view of the frozen parking lot being Lieutenant of the SPD provides. “What are we talking about?”

 

“She’s not coming back,” He doesn’t bother naming names; they both know who _she_ is. “If you want to work cases, you’ll need a partner. Someone you can trust and who trusts you back. When you’re out there—"

 

“No disrespect, but I’ve been a cop for a while, sir. I don’t need the Brothers in Arms lecture.  Cole and me been partners for over four months and we’ve been working really well together.”

 

“Have you?”

 

He rocks back on his heels, rolls his neck on his shoulders, cracks his knuckles, lets the uncomfortable silence between them stretch. 

 

“Are you listening, Detective Holder?”

 

“Oh, am I in trouble, sir? You calling me by my government name and everything...”

 

Carlson frowns, disappointment obvious, and drops his gaze to the papers on his desk. “Get out of my office, Holder.” He doesn’t have to tell him twice.

 

\--

 

He’s given her enough time to herself, now. Six months to dye her hair black, get a few piercings, sleep with randoms and do whatever else it is goody two shoes like Linden do when they’re off the clock, so he thinks it’s okay—the right thing even—to pop into the restaurant where she works and see what’s up.

 

It’s after the riverfront workers' lunch break but before the evening dinner rush and the place is pretty much deserted: just him and and an older man nursing an ancient-looking mug of coffee in the back corner of the room. It’s not the sort of place that takes reservations, and when none of the workers say anything, Holder makes his way up to the counter before taking a seat.

 

At first, all he can see is the crown of her hair, a wash of red against the restaurant’s white walls and when she comes out into the eating area and sees him, he sits up straighter without consciously meaning to. Holder wouldn’t have been able to tell that she’s surprised by his presence if he hadn’t already seen her at her worst. Just a slight widening of the eyes, a small hesitation before she moves toward him. “How have you been?”

 

“Same old, same old,” he mutters, resting his elbows on the counter and noticing how she’s changed. The long ponytail down her back has been exchanged for a low braid, all pinned up in a tight bun; she’s got a bang now, being held to the side with a practical silver barrette he’s never seen before. He fixates on it a moment before smiling. “You? It’s got to be less stressful working here at least?”

 

“You’d be surprised how stressful it is working here. I wake up in the night screaming, ‘coffee!’”

 

“Did Linden just try and make a little jokey joke?”

 

“Shut up,” she says quickly, pulling out a pad and pencil. “What do you want?”

 

“Is that how they trained you to speak to paying customers?” She narrows her eyes at him and he gives his order without further complaint.

 

“How much is my discount?”

 

“What discount?”

 

“My _I Used to Watch Your Back Daily_ discount.” I feel like it should be ‘bout 50% off, actually.”

 

“Ha,” she scoffs, poking the desserts in the case before disappearing into the back and reappearing with a slice of pie dripping warmly onto the napkin beneath it. “I was thinking something closer to zero.”

 

He would say something smart in response, but he’s only got eyes for the pastry she’s setting on a small plate in front of him. A cup of steaming coffee follows and he’s too far down the rabbit hole to think of anything witty at the moment. He watches her flutter around the restaurant out of the corner of his eyes. She checks on her other customer, then sweeps the floor, and she’s wiping down the counter when their eyes meet. There’s no smile this time when he asks, serious, “You good?”

 

She nods. “I’m good.”

 

He feels something clench in his gut at her certainty but he hides it well.

 

\--

 

Holder catches a case late that night. The local anchorman Holder watches every night is found shot in some alley, laid out in the backseat of his Beemer and bleeding all over the fine leather upholstery.

 

“Robbery...” Cole says in a voice that could be argued as having both the quality of fact or a questioning lilt so he’ll have plausible deniability either way. He’d only just been promoted to plainclothes the prior month and everyone knows he used family connections to get on Homicide. It shows and yes, Holder’s bitter. He takes a breath and leans back out of the car. Pulls off the latex and bags it with a shrug.

 

“Could be.  The watch and ring are missing,” he says, pointing his flashlight over a pale strip of flesh circling the victim’s ring finger and wrist, “but that could mean anything.”

 

“Yeah, like robbery,” Cole mutters and Holder eyes him before going on.

 

“Or... he’s getting a divorce and pawned the bitch two days ago. Maybe he lost the watch earlier or forgot to put it back on after taking his morning shower. We don’t know anything yet.” Cole looks duly chastened and he wonders if he was this stupid at the beginning. If this is how Linden felt. “No wallet then?”

 

“Not yet, but we’re searching.”

 

He grunts his assent and stretches tall. “I’m going home then. Hit me up if something changes.”

 

“Will do,” Cole calls after him, but he doesn’t turn back.

 

\--

 

He’s back in the neighborhood a week later (he’s got shit he needs to drop off at the laundromat around the corner, _okay_?) and decides to drop in on Linden. He’s only got half his ass on the seat when she walks up, low ponytail and extraneous barrette in place. “You can’t keep visiting me at work.”

 

“Wow,” he exclaims, shaking his head at her. “You are so full of yourself. I come here for the desserts only.”

 

“Really?” She asks. Her face is impassive, but she’s got that look he’s become very familiar with. She’s wearing that, _you’re full of it_ , glance as she pours his cup of coffee. “You never mentioned it before.”

 

“I don’t like to talk about where I eat. Tourists will start visiting, prices will go up, and then where will I go for a slice of pie and a cup of coffee?”

 

“One of the millions of other eateries—"

 

“Eateries,” he mimics with a wide smile. “Fancy!”

 

“—around here?” She goes on as if he hadn’t spoken and shrugs at his look. “Just saying.”

 

“Huh,” is his non-response as she goes back around the counter.

 

“Same flavor?”

 

“I think I’ll try coconut cream today, actually.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling a little and he smiles back as she hands it over. “Where are you living now, anyway?”

 

She looks up. “They rent out small studios up there.”

 

“So you _literally_ live at your job this time?”

 

“I guess you could say so.”

 

“Look at all your dreams coming true, Linden.”

 

She sighs deeply and changes the subject. “How’s the partner?”

 

“Dead weight. How’s Little Man?”

 

Her face goes soft as she leans against the counter. “He’s doing well. The school his father put him in is a great fit. His grades have gone way up. We’re supposed to see each other this summer.”

 

Holder watches her a moment before speaking. “He loves you, you know.”

 

“I know,” she responds quickly and picks up his mostly empty plate.

 

“I’m still eating that!”

 

“Well you aren’t anymore.” She scrapes it into the trash and he begrudgingly hands his money over.  “Get back to work.”

 

“Will do, Boss.” He only notices that he said it and that she didn’t correct him when he’s halfway to the station. It probably means something (they haven’t transitioned out of a professional relationship. She secretly wants to come back and he secretly wants her to), but he’s got no time to think on it. As soon as he walks in the station door, Cole’s on him.

 

“They found the anchorman’s wallet. Everything—money, credit cards, _everything_ —was still there except his ID. Why do you think they would they do that? Everyone already knows who he is.”

 

Holder kicks the door shut behind them and puts his jacket on the back of the chair before sitting and propping his feet up. “It’s a souvenir.”

 

Cole audibly swallows. “A serial killer.” he seems strangely excited by the possibility. “Are you saying this is a serial killer?”

 

“I’m not saying anything. There’s only one body.”

 

“Right,” he mutters, beginning to pace. “We don’t know anything.”

 

“So let’s not let slip to Lieutenant that we’ve even been talking about this. After—after everything that’s happened this year he won’t be open to hearing it.”

 

He nods, but mutters, “A serial killer,” under his breath like he hasn’t heard Holder at all.

 

\--

 

They catch another body two hours before he was to go off shift and he’s not happy about it.

 

“The work of the police never stops,” Cole sighs and Holder kind of has to hold himself back from punching him in the face.  When they get to the scene, it’s a kid this time. No older than 22, blond, massive head injuries from a likely hit and run. “That’s his bike,” Cole says, pointing to a twisted blue Schwinn.

 

“They took paint scrapings?” he asks, yawning widely in the middle of the question.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Checking the surveillance cameras around here?”

 

“I already put in a request.”

 

“Well, there’s not much else I can do now, is there?” He doesn’t wait for Cole to respond. “I’m going home.”

 

When Holder shuffles into work bright and early the next day (the night off having been a bust. He didn’t sleep a goddamn wink), Lieutenant sticks his head out of his office before Holder can dart out of his line of sight. “Be in my office in ten minutes,” his voice booms before disappearing again.

 

“Somebody’s in trouble,” one of his fellow detectives sing-songs behind him. He only spares a middle finger before throwing his stuff in his office and going to Carlson’s door.  He gets called in on second knock, closing the door behind himself. Cole’s sitting in one of the chairs in front of Carlson’s desk, not quite meeting his eyes.

 

“So, get me up to date on your cases then.”

 

“On our newsman, his co-anchor was out of state but she’s back now and we’ve got an interview set up for tomorrow. I just got in so I haven’t much time to go over the kid’s—"

 

“I can take it from here, then,” Cole speaks up, pulling a manila envelope from his messenger bag.

 

Holder eyes him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well then, the floor’s yours.”

 

He situates himself and clears his throat. “After my partner went home, our request for the surrounding area’s surveillance tapes came through.  It seemed like a bust at first but then...” he reaches over and pulls something else free. “We got red paint samples from the bike and there was only one red vehicle we captured in the area that night.” He hands the photo to Carlson who studies it before passing it on.  Holder clutches it in his right hand as Cole continues.  “That, of course, doesn't mean it’s the perpetrator’s vehicle, but a witness from the first crime also saw a red vehicle in the vicinity prior to the incident.”

 

“Do you know how popular red cars are?” Holder says, rubbing his temples. “There was probably a red car in the vicinity of every crime ever perpetrated.”

 

“Yes, I know. It’s circumstantial—"

 

“At best.”

 

“—but it brings us back around to my— _our_ —to the theory I was telling you we had, Lieutenant.”

 

Holder clears his throat loudly, praying he isn’t about to say what he thinks he’s about to say (because he just might haul off on his ass then and he really doesn’t need this in his life right now).

 

“Right.” Carlson sits back in his chair, his lips pursed. “The serial killer.” (and there it is...)

 

Holder laughs a little, rubbing his temples harder. “I wouldn’t call that a theory, sir—"

 

“Why? Two men were murdered within days of each other—"

 

“We were just throwing shit at the wall, sir,” he goes on, ignoring Cole. “I don't even know why we’re discussing this right now! There’s not even any evidence of a connect—”

 

“But there is,” Cole says, pulling an evidence baggy out of his seemingly bottomless sack. It’s an ID that stops Holder in his tracks. Cole smirks a little.  “We found it just after you went home. He works at the same station as our anchorman.”

 

\--

 

“What did I say about dropping in,” Linden asks, and he can’t tell if she’s actually angry or not, but he had to get out of that office and his feet took him here. (He doesn’t even want to think about what that could mean.)

 

“I know, but I’m here for business this time.”

 

“I’m busy.”

 

He looks around the restaurant and sees only the same man from his first visit, still drinking the same coffee out of the same dingy cup. “For real? That’s what you’re going to go with?”

 

“What do you want?”

 

He leans forward onto his elbows. “You know the anchorman who died?”

 

“Yeah, I saw it on the news last week.”

 

“Someone else was murdered, a kid named Joseph Milton. Turns out he works on the news too.”

 

“Could be a coincidence,” she says, but he can see her gears beginning to turn.

 

“Could be, different methods were used on each victim. They’re both white males, but that’s where the similarities end. Lieutenant and Cole think it might be a serial killer, and I did too, but—"

 

“You’ve got a feeling it isn’t.” From anyone else, that would’ve sounded condescending. But Linden meant it as exactly as it was. It’s something he’s always liked about her.

 

“They want something big to bring them into the public’s good graces since—" He stops short and glances up at her.

 

“Rosie?”

 

“Right. They want to solve something big. Get their faces on the front page again for doing something well this time.”

 

“Well, watch yourself,” she finally says. “You’re already on his shit list and SPD isn’t doing so well at the moment. You don’t want to bring their name any further down.”

 

“I don’t. But I know they’re going in the wrong direction with this.”

 

“Well, keep checking it out off the clock.” She grabs a towel and runs it under the faucet. “You can’t ignore your hunches.”

 

“No, boss," he says quietly, watching her wipe her way down the counter methodically. “You can’t.”

 

When he leaves the diner, he knows he should go back to the office and start on the pile of paperwork that’s been sitting on his desk for the past two months. He should do what Linden says, keep a low profile, run a sideline investigation and go to the Lieutenant with some evidence of why the high profile case he’s hoping for is probably something a little more mundane, but that’s not really his style.  It’s not hers, either, if their time together was representative of her usual methods.

 

He jogs to the car and pulls his cell free. Dials a number and pulls out a cigarette as it rings. He’s in the middle of lighting it when the woman answers. “Yeah, hey,” he says juggling the phone and the lighter. “Sheila Temple, this is Detective Holder. I set up an interview with you tomorrow.”

 

“Right. How can I help you?”

 

“I was wondering if we could move it up. You said you have evidence and I need it as soon as possible.”

 

“Well, I…” she begins to sidestep. “I set up an interview because this is very sensitive information, and being an anchor person, I have to control my image…”

 

“Look,” Holder breaks in, stubbing out his cigarette, suddenly angry. “I don’t give a shit about your job, lady. Two people are dead. Your co-workers are dead and you have evidence of who did it. If you don’t see me today, I will have you arrested for evidence tampering—"

 

“Fine,” she concedes submissively. “All right, Detective. Meet me at the station. I’ll have my assistant meet you at the back lot entrance.”

 

“I’ll be there in 20.” He hangs up and tosses his phone back into the car; sits sideways in the driver’s seat, feet firmly on the asphalt, knee jiggling and telegraphing to anyone in the know the junkie he once was. He considers lighting up again as he stares at Linden flitting around through the wide front window, decides against it and rights himself before taking off.

 

The girl’s waiting just where Ms. Temple said she would be, wrapped up tight in a thick winter coat she doesn’t take off as she leads him into the building. He follows her up three flights of stairs, six left turns and three rights before nodding toward a closed door. “She’s in there.” The girl’s gone before he can ask anything else, and Holder steps forward; only has to knock once before the pretty dark-skinned woman from the nightly news pulls him inside.

 

“Did you make it up here all right? The building’s layout is sort of ridiculous.”

 

“Yeah, it was fine.”

 

“Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”

 

“No, thank you.” When she doesn’t move he goes on. “How about you just show me what you have.”

 

“Right.” She nods her head and  starts off in one direction before turning to the other and moving to a drawer at her desk. “About a year ago, I started getting some strange mail. Someone sending me letters, love letters, “ she clarifies. “Small gifts and whatnot. I didn’t think much of it. Based off of the writing and what he was sending, we thought it was the same guy who’d been bothering our meteorologist earlier that year.”

 

“What’s the guy’s name?”

 

She hands him a slip of paper. “There was some stuff in one of the earlier letters and I hired a PI. He was able to figure out that name. Anyway, about two or three months later, the letters started coming to my home and they were more... explicit in nature.” She hands over a bag of them and he begins to read.

 

“He began threatening me. Saying that he knew my schedule, when I’d be alone in the house and I got scared.”

 

“Why didn’t you file a report? You had a possible name...”

 

“Like I said, he’d been bothering the weather lady before moving onto me, and this is a fairly normal occurrence in our field. The studio beefed up my security and I got a dog. I thought if I ignored him he’d get over it and obsess over someone else. For a while, I thought he had. I didn’t get any letters, no presents, no threats. Then, about a month ago, I got this in the mail.” She starts to hand him an envelope, pulls back for a moment before tossing it into his lap. “Then those showed up at my house.”

 

He pulls out photographs of her and their first victim on a beach somewhere. He flips through them until bathing suits begin disappearing and he shoves them back into their envelope. He gets the gist. “You were having an affair.”

 

“Yes. He said if I didn’t meet with him he’d leak the photos, show everyone what a ‘whore’ I was. I finally went to the higher ups and they decided it was best for me to take my vacation time. I didn’t hear about any of this until after Joe’s death. When I did, I came home immediately and called you guys.”

 

“Did you have anything going on with the other victim?”

 

“No,” she answers quickly. “I was the point person for his internship and his mentor. That’s all, but we would go out to lunch about once a week or so. Maybe the guy thought otherwise.”

 

“Is there anything else?”

 

“You have to believe me,” she says, reaching under her desk and handing a small box over. “All that stuff I said on the phone about protecting my image? I didn’t mean it; I was scared for him to see me going into the station.” Holder reaches for the gloves in his back pocket. He slaps them on, pulls out two bloody state IDs and a three word letter:

 

_See You Soon_

 

When Holder gets back in his car, he feels like he’s just run a 5k and fucked Angelina Jolie on the finish line. He thinks about calling Linden before realizing she’s still at work and wouldn’t appreciate hearing him gloat over how he didn’t listen to her advice. He shoves the two boxes into the footwell behind the driver’s seat and calls Carlson on his way back to the station.

 

“You went to interview a witness, maybe a possible suspect, alone,” Carlson says just as Holder bursts through the double doors. The pen quiets around them and he sees no point in denying it, the Lieutenant already knows.

 

“She’s not a suspect. She wasn’t even in the country when they were killed.”

 

“That’s very convenient,” Cole says, and Holder frowns in his direction. “She could’ve hired someone.”

 

“I thought it was a serial killer, according to you.”

 

“One of many possibilities.”

 

“The one you’re pushing hardest. There’s…” he shakes his head, trying to explain himself. “There’s something else, sir. If you would just let me speak to you—"

 

“No,” Carlson denies firmly. “And as hard as it seems it is for you to believe, we’re not all against you. We’re trying to examine every possible reason for those two deaths.”

 

“Except that you’re letting someone more worried about making their own career blow hot air up your ass.”

 

“Detective!”

 

“I can figure out who this killer is!” Holder exclaims.

 

“You have about as much proof of that as any other theory being bounced around.”

 

“Shut up, douchebag.”

 

“ _Douchebag_ ,” Cole repeats on a chuckle. “Good job. That’s very grown-up insult.”

 

“Okay, boys,” Carlson orders. “Let’s calm down.”

 

“With all due respect, sir, I can't do that. You say you’re open to all the possibilities, but I know what you want this to be. Something _high profile_. Something that’ll go as far and wide as the Rosie case. Something that’ll stop you from being the laughing stock of the state, and the guy I find might get your face on the cover of the local newspaper, but this won’t get you much nationwide press. Wave goodbye to that hosting gig on an Investigation Discovery series, sir. It’s going to someone else.”

 

“You’re out of line, Holder!”

 

“No, he is! He’s got no idea what he’s doing!” He turns on Cole angrily. “You’re not a cop; you’re a security guard. Maybe a desk jockey on a good day, but you don’t belong here,  and you most definitely don’t belong out there.”

 

“And your crazy girlfriend does?”

 

“My crazy partner is ten times the cop you are now or could ever hope to be.”

 

“Oh, she is?”

 

“Yeah, asshole.” He stands up as tall as he can over the shorter man. “She is.”

 

“Go home, tough guy,” Carlson says, pushing between them. “And you too,” he orders at Cole’s sidelong look. We’ll talk tomorrow at 8 sharp.”

 

“But—"

 

“No buts, Holder. Get out of this station now or I will have you removed.” With that he disappears into his office.

 

\--

 

“I need your help.”

 

Linden spins toward him on a gasp, clutching the restaurant keys to her chest. “Holder?” When he steps into the light, she makes a move like she’s going to deck him. “What the hell!”

 

“Sorry for scaring you, but I need your help with something.”

 

“Your case? You want to go over it with me?”

 

“Yeah but I need you for something more... involved this time, too.”

 

“More involved?”

 

“Remember yesterday when you told me to keep my head down and find more evidence in my downtime?”

 

“Yes...”

 

“Well I did the exact opposite of that. I went to interview a key witness alone, I have critical evidence in a possible double homicide sitting in my backseat and I’m going to need some back-up when I go interview a credible suspect tonight.”

 

She’s already shaking her head. “I’m not a cop—"

 

“Once police, always police.”

 

“No,” she goes on. “That’s not true. I’m out of it. Nothing you’re saying concerns me.”

 

“These people, Linden, those people who got killed were innocent. Some psycho wiped them off the face of the earth because he was angry at someone else. You can’t let—

 

“Ames came in the other day for a photo-op or something. He sat right there,” she mutters, pointing inside of the restaurant, but he doesn’t turn to follow her gaze. “He ordered a cherry Coke.”

 

“Linden—”

 

“What about your new partner? It’s been half a year. You two have to have—"

 

“He’s trying to make his career off this. I don’t trust him.”

 

“We’ve been apart longer than we were ever together.”

 

“And all it took was a month for you to ruin me.” He says it jokingly, but neither of them laughs. Holder rubs his chin and leans in closer to her. “Help me.”

 

“He had his whole entourage with him,” she says, the light behind her eyes gone back in the past, finally traveling somewhere he can’t try and follow her. “He pretended like he didn’t recognize me.” Her voice sounds like it did that day, when they took her and drugged her up and made her a zombie and Holder suddenly wishes he would’ve listened to his gut as soon as he saw that barrette, but it’s too late now. Too late to go back.

 

“Please, Linden.”

 

She finally turns toward him, studies his face for a moment before nodding quickly. “Okay.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

She nods again, but doesn’t say anything else and she looks like he remembers when they meet later that day—ugly ass sweater, long-ass ponytail down the center of her back, no frivolous-ass barrette in sight.

 

“What’s if it’s him?” She asks as they walk toward his car. The afternoon is just fading into early evening, and it’s already getting dark.

 

“It won’t be.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“Because it would be too easy. Nothing’s ever easy for us.”

 

“There’s a first time for everything.”

 

They settle into the car, Holder behind the wheel and Linden in the passenger seat. “It won’t be him. The letters stopped for a while, and when they started up again they were different. I think maybe he talked to someone about her and they picked up where he left off.”

 

He starts the car and pulls away from the curb. “It won’t be him.”

 

\--

 

It’s full dark now, his palms slippery against the handle of the gun, and Holder can’t help but wonder why Linden always has to be right. He called for backup as soon as their suspect made a run for it (“We’re gonna have a long talk about your place on the force after this, Holder,” Carlson seethed) but he can barely hear their sirens over the sound of his own heavy breathing.

 

He’s searching the perimeter of the building and taking the corner slowly, heart beating out of his chest (and he’d never say it out loud, but this is what keeps him on the force. This feeling. The throat clogging fear and the adrenaline rush as he pushes through it. It’s better than the weeks of work put into his tattoo, almost as good as his first hit). There’s no one there and he’s almost disappointed until he hears Linden’s voice. “Holder!”

 

Her voice echoes back to him from nowhere and everywhere and he feels dread twist his guts. “Linden!” he calls back, already moving. “Holder!” she calls back, the fading trails of her voice floating toward him out of a narrow side alley. He takes off running full speed in that direction, falls once, scraping the side of his face and jarring his elbow against the concrete so badly the reverb makes his teeth clench, but he can barely feel it. He’s up and running again before he makes the conscious decision to do so. The alley’s tight enough that he has to turn slightly to the side to make it through without ripping his arms up against the building’s brick exteriors.

 

“Linden!” She doesn’t answer this time, but he can hear the sounds of a struggle. There’s low talking he can barely make out, then a loud crash followed by a yell. He finally lays eyes on her, slumped over next to two garbage cans, and beats a path to her side.

 

“He went that way,” she yells, holding her arm against her chest carefully with a grimace.

 

“Where are you hurt?” he asks, trying to check her vitals before she pushes him away.

 

“I hit him and he broke my arm! I think I rolled my ankle too.” She touches it before grunting in pain. “What are you waiting for? He’s going to get away!” His eyes dart back and forth between Linden and their quickly escaping suspect (and he can’t lose the guy, but he can’t leave her either) before he kneels down at her side.

 

“Go, Holder!” For once in his life, he ignores a direct order from her and grasps her good hand as he radios for medical.

 

\--

 

He’s sitting in the waiting room (gauze on his cheek and elbow. His hoodie is destroyed and he sort of thinks that’s the true tragedy of this entire operation), watching Carlson’s triumphant press conference on the criminal he just collared, when she hobbles out of the back.  He stands gingerly and meets her halfway. “Want the good news or the bad news first?”

 

She looks about ten times worse for the wear, but she doesn’t tell him to get lost like he half expects. “Bad,” she says, trying to figure out how to best work her crutches.

 

“I’ve been put on leave...”

 

She opens her mouth to say something before her face changes and she shrugs. “That’s to be expected. You took a civilian to a suspect's house as backup.”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

 

“I don’t know what gave you that idea.”

 

“Anyway,” he cuts in, holding up his pointer finger. “Here’s the good news: I don’t got no paperwork so we get to go out tonight...” He sways back and forth a few times. “You comin’?”

 

She narrows her eyes at him. “Do you see my foot right now?”

 

“Yeah, it’ll probably get you a few drinks at least—"

 

She smacks his shoulder and scoffs. “What about our suspect?”

 

“Oh, him? They caught that dude.” Holder breaks out in a wide smile. “He was hiding in a dumpster six blocks away.”

 

\--

 

Since they took away his license to kill and it’s sort of hard to be a waitress when you can’t lift a tray and can barely walk, she ends up staying at his place most nights poring over cold cases. They order in (Chinese takeout with sweet and sour chicken, one large Meat Lovers Pizza) or he makes her something (Chicken Fettuccine with extra parmesan, tiny silver dollar pancakes with loads of syrup).

 

A month into his leave, when she’s let go from her job after almost putting her bad arm through his front window trying not to fall off a ladder (because once again, a waitress who can’t lift or walk is pretty useless, and he told her to let him finish up the painting _but no_...), and his union rep can barely get Carlson on the phone, they look over cases in between episodes of Maury or bouts of Assassin's Creed. They eat yesterday morning’s pancakes, Chinese from three days ago, week old pizza.

 

She’s a homebody, but Holder needs the streets, and when he stumbles through the door sometime after three, he almost trips over one of Linden’s sneakers and only barely stops himself from going head over ass.  He glances toward the door to his bedroom quickly, but doesn’t hear her stir. He’d invited her out earlier (“Come on, Linden,” he’d cajoled, mischievous smile in place. “Dark room, loud music, endless liquor… you might even get yourself a little something something before the night’s through)but she’d only looked up at him until he conceded defeat and left without her.

 

He walks into the room quietly and eyes her curled up tightly on the far side of the bed.

 

She’s officially been his roommate since the restaurant fired her, and even though Holder thinks of himself as a modern man, he’s not sure how he feels about living alongside a woman he isn’t involved with, especially in such a small space. It only amplifies all the bad things about having a roommate (higher bills, less space, girl stuff everywhere, absolutely no pussy at home because they switch off the bed bi-weekly and since he wouldn’t really want to sleep in some random dude’s wet spot, it’s only kosher to extend that same good will to Linden).

 

(It’s funny. The one solution to their problem—asking her how the apartment hunt’s going—never even crosses his mind)

 

They gave him some Oxy after he got his ass beat and he got the script filled but never took the pills. After the third night listening to her shamble through the living room, he’d offered her one (“I got some good shit if you can’t sleep, Linden and, lucky for you, I’m willing to share.”) He guesses she finally took him up on it.

 

He walks to the bathroom quietly and shuts the door. He yanks his clothes off, head pleasantly cottony and still feeling good from the three drinks he shouldn’t have had when his mind wanders to the woman in his bed. Holder’s a guy. A guy who likes girls and Linden’s a chick so, yeah, the thought has crossed his mind before. It’s hard for him to imagine Linden and sex, though. With the ex, with her therapist (and Holder really just finds that whole thing sort of skeevy anyway )… She obviously did at least once cause she’s got little man, but the edges of the act can’t seem to take shape in his mind.

 

He’s seen Linden as many things: obsessive, bitchy, loyal, angry, smug, tenacious, but he’s never really seen her as soft, as welcoming, as warm. Not even lately when she’s actually begun smiling in his direction more than she frowns. He idly wonders what would happen if he walked out there and slipped in beside her. Let his hand work its way between her thighs. Maybe she’d open her eyes slowly, roll onto her back, spread her legs for him, push her hips up into his touch, pull him closer, ask for more.

 

He wonders if she’d actually let him take point for once.

 

Holder laughs a little because out of everything that’s crossed his mind tonight, that last thought strikes him as the most ridiculous. Not that it really matters, because he’s pretty sure she’d pop him one if he ever tried, but he also knows she’d be just the same in bed as she is out of it: bossy as hell. She’d call the shots, set their pace and, just as in their everyday life, he’d follow her lead.

 

Those scenarios hadn’t necessarily been fantasies, but his cock doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. It’s standing up, begging for attention, and it would be easy to give it some, but he doesn’t touch himself. It’s not out of some misguided sense of respect either. He doesn’t put that much weight behind what gets him hard. It’s because he doesn’t want to cross those wires. To begin confusing the idea of Linden (his friend, his roommate) with shit like his hard-on and the pressure of his fist and the stretch of skin and the floating emptiness of his finish.

 

He turns the cold water tap to full blast and lets it do its work.

 

He’s out of the shower and dressed a second later. Attempting to sneak back out of the room when he hears a low, “Jack?” Holder turns back toward her and even in the dark room, her brain dulled from sleep and pharmaceuticals, he can feel her mind beginning to work. “You smell like weed.”

 

Holder smiles at that, and, after a moment of thought, sits on the edge of the bed. “That's from the club, and Little Man’s with his dad, Linden. Remember?”

 

“Stephen...”

 

He can’t remember if she’s ever really called him by his first name before, and it stops him short. “Sarah,” he mimics. Holder’s said her name a few times, but it’s strange uttering it in the darkness of his bedroom. Intimate in a way that makes him fidget. He tugs her ankle out from beneath the blanket, gently prodding around the edges of her bruise ( _she’s your responsibility now_ ) before pulling the sock she’d kicked off sometime that night free from the blankets and tugging it back into place. “Does it still hurt?” He looks up and she’s staring back at him.

 

“Not too much.”

 

He sits there a moment longer, her face a shadow between curtains of red, before standing. “Night, Linden.” She grunts a response as she rolls over, and he only hovers a little before leaving, making sure the door stays open a crack behind him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the insanely quick and awesomely thorough beta, [**carolinecrane**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinecrane)! I also want to thank, [**Moontyger**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moontyger) for the second set of eyes and the characterization tips. Both of you helped me immensely.


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